Beginnings

Little League

Game Day: First Inning. Warming up in the bullpen, I look out at Newman Outdoor Field. Good, everyone on the RedHawks is at his normal position — no pitchers in the outfield, as their manager, Doug Simunic, had threatened. But the lineup card shows that Darryl Motley isn't playing. This is the guy who said on the radio he would not play against me. Motley, who used to play in the majors, is on a six-game hitting streak, and I wish he were in. I want to compete against the best they have.

I'm glad to be pitching against the RedHawks' number one starter, Blaise Isley, tied for most wins in the league. The game is sold out, and the stands are filled with five thousand fans in home-team red T-shirts. It's pennant night, so the fans are waving RedHawks flags. Newman Field reminds me of the diamond in the movie Field of Dreams, as if it emerged in some magical way out of the North Dakota prairie. Actually it's on the edge of the campus of North Dakota State University and is a beautiful new brick ballpark: the ironwork and seats are painted forest green, and the field kind of sits up instead of being sunk down. Unlike Midway Stadium in St. Paul last year, Newman is more of a pitcher's ballpark, because it has lots of foul ground and the prevailing winds don't turn fly balls into home runs, so I feel free to pitch the way I want to. Funny, the dimensions are the same as those of Yankee Stadium — a tribute to a Fargo native named Roger Maris, who broke Babe Ruth's home run record in 1961.

By the time I finish throwing, the sweat is dripping off me. And then comes the announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, please stand and remove your hats for the singing of our national anthem."

I take off my cap, which I vainly hate to do because when I sweat my hair turns pouffy, wipe the salt from my eyes, stand tall, and place the cap over my heart. I can feel my heartbeat through my jersey. As the music begins, the words fill my heart and send a thrill throughout my body. I love this moment. "Land of the free and the home of the brave." The words remind me that this is where I belong, on the field. After the closing notes I head for the dugout, where everything begins to blur. Players and coaches are moving around me but in slow motion. Fans are yelling and pointing at me, smiling, waving, but I just hear my breathing. They are talking to me, their lips are moving, but I don't really hear them, focused as I am on the game.

The Dukes score a run in the top of the first, thanks to an RBI double by Big Papa, also known as Anthony Lewis, one of my biggest supporters. With the third out, I get ready to run to the mound when Dave Glick grabs my arm. He knows that's the only way to get my attention when I'm about to pitch. He looks me in the eye and says, "You've got this, Ila."

I grin at him and think to myself, Just do what you did last week when you notched that win. As I jog to the mound, the crowd erupts with cheers and boos. I see the lips of my catcher, Javier Rodriguez, move as he calls my name, but the noise from the stands is so loud that I can't hear his voice. Great to hear the love, but it's the boos that will drive me now. I grab the ball from behind the mound, rubbing it to get the last bit of gloss off and get the feel of the ball. I take my place on the rubber. The mound feels right, and I feel comfortable. Mounds are subject to regulation, but there are nuances. From mound to mound, the rubber doesn't always sit in the exact same place; in Fargo the dirt has more clay in it and feels more stable. After my eighth warmup pitch, I bend low as Javier throws the ball to second, who underhands it to Luis Brito, our shortstop, who throws it back to me. Luis points his mitt at me, as if to say, "Let's go." I scrape the dirt off my cleats on the edge of the rubber, take a deep breath, and push it out.

The RedHawks are intimidating, not just because they're in first place but because they're so damned big. They're also damned good: three of the first four hitters I'll face are batting more than .350 against us. All we have for big is our first baseman, Ozzie Canseco, six feet two inches tall, 220 pounds — and he's not even playing today because he's serving a three-game suspension from last night's game against the Winnipeg Goldeyes. That's because umpires don't like to be spit on. It's true that Ozzie has a temper, but despite his machismo he's always been respectful toward me and goes out of his way to offer tips.

Everyone on the RedHawks seems as big as Ozzie. No surprise, then, that they are a fastball hitting team. So I'll have to pitch backwards — get ahead with off-speed pitches for strikes, place the two-seam fastball on the outside corner of the plate running away, and spot the four-seamer high and tight to keep them from sitting on the outside pitches. I plan to hit the corners, frustrate them with junk, put a lot of movement on the ball, and put the ball in play. For that I need good defense behind me. Because I'm not a strikeout pitcher, the guys know they are going to be busy in the field.

"Song 2" by Blur is playing over the public address system. First up is shortstop Chad Akers, a right-handed batter with wheels. He's a first-pitch hitter, so I start him off with a screwball on the outside corner. He begins to move on it but decides to lay off. Strike one. To keep Akers honest and make my fastball look faster than it is, I throw the next pitch inside and straight. But it's high and tight. He takes it for ball one. Baseball's a game not just of inches but also of microseconds, and pitchers vary their speed to keep batters off balance. I figure he's a little anxious and looking for a fastball away. My next pitch is a slower screwball away. Akers bites and hits a slow nubber to third base. Briller is slow to get to the ball but fields it cleanly and fires to first. Too late. Akers's speed gets him an infield single. Shit, I say to myself. Off the field I don't cuss much, but when I pitch I am as foul-mouthed as they come. I grab the toss from Lewis, our first baseman, and think, Don't panic, just throw adouble play ball and keep this guy close. As I wait for the next batter, I can feel the first base coach and Akers watching me. I don't have to look into the RedHawks dugout to feel Simunic staring my way. I'm aware that there are four people in the league who despise my presence: Hal Lanier, the manager of the Winnipeg Goldeyes; Ed Nottle, the manager of the Sioux City Explorers (who called me "that thing" in a radio interview last year); Larry See, who is playing out his minor league career with the Thunder Bay Whiskey Jacks; and Simunic, who likes to spit on the ground whenever he catches my eye.

As Steve Hine comes to the plate, Ozzie Osborne's "Crazy Train" plays. Always liked that song. Hine...